A Full Shot Next to an Empty Cocktail

The last week has been nothing but cleaning and packing, so I feared that my post this week would be about all the stuff I found under my bed. It was disgusting. I considered just skipping writing anything at all, hoping that my mom and the other seven readers would understand, but then I went to the gynecologist and it was a god damn schmorgesborg of silliness. You now have very good reason to assume that this entry is going to get weird, but I promise it doesn't. Well, I guess that depends on your definition of weird. I'm going to get reported to the Overlord of Blog, aren't I? Does that only happen if I use the word vagina? I won't say vagina, don't worry. [Feel free to add your own assumptions about my feelings on literally everything that's come out of male politician's mouths in the last week that relate to lady parts. Or you can tell yourself that I really do care about following the Code of Blog, totally up to you.]

Right, so I went to the gynecologist. It should be known that I have absolutely no issue with going, as I know many women do, and I had no fear or apprehension or anything of the sort leading up to my examination.

WAIT. We all know what a gynecologist does, right? Google it right quick.

I felt totally whatever about going in for my annual because, in case you didn't know, I'm a pretty big advocate of women's health (ok, all reproductive health, let's not discriminate) and I firmly believe that if you have shit to get checked out, then get it checked out. For years I quarreled with a friend who refused to go to the gynecologist. She thought it was disgusting and weird and totally humiliating and her biggest fear was being judged by the doctor. But I told her that it's not like a Redwood tree down there--the doctors don't see rings or anything. And besides, you have no idea what is going on inside of your body so you need someone to give it a nice thorough looksy, make sure everything is where it needs to be, make sure nothing is growing where it shouldn't, and then you're done until next year. And my friend? Yeah, she totally hates going. She indeed finds it disgusting, weird, and humiliating. But hey, I don't like the dentist. C'est la vie.

I made it to my appointment on time, signed in, sat around in the creepily silent but always filled with pregnant ladies waiting room, and then I went back to begin my journey through the labyrinth of desks, exam rooms, offices, stock rooms and phantom exit signs that don't really go anywhere. The nurse weighed me and before stepping onto the scale, I sucked in my stomach. I like to tell myself that this makes a difference. Then back to the exam room where I sit in the weird modern furniture and the nurse asks me some questions before she says:

"Ok, I need you to pee in this cup."

I must have laughed or made a face or simply shook my head because I can't imagine having any other reaction. There was no way in hell I had any excess liquid in my body. I should explain. My body does not adjust well to heat. In fact, my body has yet to develop a heat regulation process of any kind and I spend May-August completely miserable, completely dehydrated, and completely gross. I sweat when I take showers. If I'm baking and I touch the batter, the dough melts. (This is true, this happens pretty regularly.) And my car, the very one I had just driven to said appointment, is a convection oven and offers no relief from any outdoor temperature above 55 degrees. At the moment of being asked for pee in a cup, I was lucky to have fluid in my eye sockets. I said:

"Yeah, I'm gonna need some water for that."

I changed into a slate gray robe, the kind with the weird drawstring ties that don't really draw or tie anything together. The nurse brought me a red Solo cup filled with ice cold water, a bendy straw included. I couldn't help but be reminded of a cheap cocktail. But the water was tasty and almost certainly came from a Brita--this is definitely the kind of place with a Brita. She left me again and I traipsed around in circles, letting my robe hang open while I slurped my water. After I finished, I jumped up and down a few times, hoping for gravity to help. It worked eventually. I went to the bathroom, mustered a pathetic Dixie cup of urine, and then set it on the counter next to my Solo cup, like a full shot next to an empty cocktail.

More minutes passed, because time at the gynecologist's office is predominantly spent waiting around, and then another nurse entered my exam room. She immediately went for the Purell pump sitting on the sink, slammed down the top, and Purell went everywhere. She made a comment about it, hoping for a laugh I would have usually given her but I had nothing clever to say. I think I said something like Yeah, that'll happen. Heh heh. But then this nurse, who was not the nurse from before, picked up my pee cup and DUMPED IT DOWN THE SINK. So nonchalant about it. Like. Oh, here's some pee in a cup, this is probably old anyway, I'll just go ahead and get rid of it. Now there is an excellent chance that something medical happened between picking up the cup and pouring it out, but the next thing I knew she was tossing is in a trash can. I worked really hard for that, you know? I had to drink a whole cup of water for that. But of course I didn't mention anything to her because I didn't want to pee again. I just assume they got what they needed from me.

Then my doctor came in for the main event. My lady doctor is a man and that really freaks some people out. Well I love the guy so it doesn't phase me too much. He has this fantastic way of sweeping into the room, his nurse trailing him like a groupie, and he just starts up some fabulous conversation that makes you feel like a god damn princess and before you know it the exam is over. Now we could all make a lot of jokes about men and their charm and how my pelvic exams sound like a bad date but seriously, believe me. This guy is the cat's pajamas. He asked me about my summer and I kind of ho-hummed about the difficulties of being a new graduate and not knowing what to do with my life. It was then that he launched into a truly brilliant believe in your dreams!!! speech. I know that some people reading this have had a full exam with the gynecologist: the one that starts under your arm pits and ends inside of you. For those who haven't, well, read the previous sentence. That's basically what happens.

How I felt during my pelvic exam. 

So there I was, splayed out on an exam table, feet in stirrups, robe wide open, and I felt like a million bucks. Though I have received a lot of support for my move to Chicago, I have also dealt with just enough negativity that it's began (begun?) to wear on me. People talk to me like I'm an idiot; like I don't know it's expensive; like I don't know I don't have a job; like I generally have no idea what I'm doing and I'm being a big fat entitled Akron-hater without a clue. No, it didn't necessarily take my rubber gloved gynecologist to finally convince me I'm not making a huge mistake. But I do love it when adults are on my side. I loved that this man, who probably spent most of his twenties in  school, was so unbelievably excited for me to take my time, have fun, and be whatever I want to be. I'm sure you are, too!!!! Seriously, though. Great talk. What do you think: would that scene most likely feature a) Carrie Bradshaw b) Hannah Horvat c) Liz Lemon? or d) some other really awesome girl character?

So, yeah! Woo! Yay! Success! 

But then I had to get an ultrasound anyway. Uhghhghghghghghghghhhhggg.

I'm some thing of a "high risk" patient, so when things are not functioning at 100%, into the ultrasound room I go. I've had the procedure done more times than I can count, so it's not the physical act that annoys the shit out of me, it's the waiting for the apparatus to not be in use. And it's the waiting around to see if the ultrasound tech is even in the office that day. And it's the listening to that awful receptionist talk about all the cute lunch boxes that are on sale at Target. In case you didn't know, you don't just "get" to have an ultrasound, the doctor is doing it see what's wrong with you. I'm talking about the internal ultrasound, by the way; the invasive one. Have you seen Knocked Up? There's a scene where one of the potential gynecologists lubes up a large phallic looking probe, points it at Seth Rogen, laughs and says, "You're next!" Ok, it's that thing. 

I was eventually called into the ultrasound room. The tech was an older woman, undoubtedly someone's grandma, and upon checking my chart she realized that she had done my first ultrasound so many years ago. Adorable. I changed again behind a curtain and waddled to the chair with a paper sheet wrapped around my waist. Alright, I thought, breathe and relax your knees. My eyes were closed and I had a nice zen smile on my face. But when I looked next to me, the woman was holding the probe out to me, as though offering a popsicle. 

"I'll let you insert this yourself," she said smiling.

And then I laughed because I didn't know how else to react. 

So that was my doctor's appointment!!! By the way, I'm fine. This wasn't my way of subtly hinting at some illness I have. In fact, one of my proudest personal achievements is how healthy my blood is. No, seriously. Whenever I want to feel good about my body I give blood because the nurses always go crazy about how perfect my blood is and how healthy my veins are. I'm giving blood tomorrow--the area Red Cross thinks I'm something of a celebrity. Oh, right, I also do it to save lives. 

I am moving to Chicagoland on Saturday! Can't wait to write the entry about me trying to understand public transit. I can't say for certain, but that is going to be a hoot. 

And for anyone keeping score, I didn't even have to say vagina. You're welcome. 

And So It Begins

It's best to read that title the way Mr. Fox says it in Fantastic Mr. Fox. Because that's how it sounds in my head. Here's my favorite line from that movie:

"Redemption? Sure. But in the end he's just another dead rat in a garbage can behind a Chinese restaurant."

That has little to nothing to do with what I'm about to write about, so best not to try and make a connection.

For those of you who don't know my official moving date is September 1, meaning I have less than two weeks to get the tangible elements of my life in some kind of order. I made a pretty detailed To-Do list this past weekend, the first item on the list being "Make To-Do List." So at least I got to check off that one. I divided my list into four sections, one of them completely dedicated to the cleaning of/sorting of/purging of my room, a terrifying feat I've been putting off since we moved into this house 10  years ago. That sub-section was then split into a list of five, each item being a different part of my room that I felt needed the most individual attention. The number one slot went to the bookshelf and pile of crap next to the bookshelf, or as I like to call this area, "the fire hazard." Thank God there's a push to go paperless, because I am one of the assholes who only drafts stories with ink in notebooks and puts hexes on Kindles. This corner of my room is proof of that. The books are making the move with me, but that stack of crap had to be downsized, biggest reason being I knew just how many embarrassing creative attempts were in there.

Some a dat stack. 

Now as many know, especially artists of any kind, we all have artistic endeavors of which we are not proud. Well, maybe proud is not the correct word. We should all have pride in our efforts. But there are certainly drafts and recordings and sketches that we pray will never see the light of day. Yes, they have  probably served as a foundation for something better, but the actual first attempt at converting emotion to art is rough. The above picture is the rough stuff. The oh my god, noooo stuff. The boys who do not love me so I really have a lot of feelings right now stuff. The I'm 13 and alt music is my life and nobody understands me stuff. There was just an overwhelming amount of stuff and I went through all of it. 

Some notebooks were entirely dedicated to free writing: words I could have put in my diary but for whatever reason, I needed notebook paper. Those pieces were difficult because the emotion was raw but I was still trying to write with a hint of presentation. It was like I deemed my thoughts and feelings insignificant so I needed to amp up the pageantry just a touch in order to make them valuable. But to whom? I don't know, but I was looking for something. I have a rule about my diaries: creative writing never, ever, ever goes in them. Yes, we can argue about creativity of style and language and what not, but ultimately the diary exists for thoughts and nothing else, so it's very interesting that I felt compelled to put certain things in spiral notebooks. I think that, even at 15, I was aware of the artifice. 

Then there were binders and notebooks dedicated to various pieces of dialogue. Some were a part of larger script ideas, others had clearly been jotted down while sitting in a high school classroom. I found a list of 10 different script ideas. None of this stuff was horrible, which surprised me. A lot of these dialogue pieces had been inspired by people, though, and thinking about the person who at one time made you feel something is very strange and not super awesome. I think it takes a lot of maturity to transition from asking who inspired this? to what inspired this? It is so easy to point a finger and say "YOU did this to me" or "how could YOU?" But when we start thinking about themes, issues--politics, lying, family dynamics, etc.-- the writing becomes something else. It takes a long, long time to learn to extract how you feel about being cheated on and the concept of cheating as opposed to what you think of the cheater. Or the lover, or the liar, or the teacher or whomever introduced you to the feeling you wanted to express when you wrote it down. I think we should always let people inspire us as long as we recognize what is being inspired. Oh, and then use that person as an outline for a character. You can't let that kind of material go to waste. Somebody taught you how to say "fuck you" but somebody else made you say it with feeling. 

Anyway. Among the pages and dialogue and stories and lists of ideas, I was really surprised at how much of that material is still being used when I write. So even though I threw away all of it, I am definitely still using a lot of those one-liners and situations and characters and what not. Even if they were written in notebooks that look like this: 

Artfully styled in the year 2000. There is a big ass

picture of NSync on the back. 

My senior thesis project was a creative writing collection. There was all sorts of stuff crammed in there: stories, monologues, lists, scenes. It's very cool and very humbling to see that so much of that was easily 15 years in the making. That stack of notebooks and binders in the picture above? It was basically condensed into 140 pages. That's a lot of editing. Now I write everything on yellow legal pads or in small Moleskin notebooks. I'm interested to see how large that stack will get until it's ripped apart and downsized. 

And as for the diaries. Well.

Where are you in this stack? Jk! But seriously. 

24 individual hard covered journals. Nearly 16 years. Each entry including a date, a salutation, and a signature. Black ink only. You want to know why I have such a good memory? I write it down. And from all those pages you see above, there is the rawness and newness that stories don't get. These are a huge part of my writing process because I need the fuel to start the machine. In my final English class of my college career I read an essay in which I mentioned that I write about every new person I meet. Well, here are the records. 

Writing has propelled me to where I am now. Ironic, as I am unemployed and wading through post graduate life and trying to navigate the "where" and the "now." I know for a fact that there are people who read the previous sentence and think I'm a loser or I'm unmotivated or I wasted so much money on college or I'm making a huge mistake or some variation of those. And that's okay. I made this decision and I'm really happy about it. I'm terrified, yes, but I'm happy. Having a skill that is based in creativity gives people the idea that you are either out of touch with reality or you just don't care to ever be a part of reality. But I really like to write. Let's see what happens. 

Here's some advice I really like: 

"Writing is a muscle. Smaller than a hamstring and slightly bigger than a bicep, and it needs to be exercised to get stronger. Think of your words as reps, your paragraphs as sets, your pages as daily workouts. Think of your laptop as a machine like the one at the gym where you open and close your inner thighs in front of everyone, exposing both your insecurities and your genitals. Because that is what writing is all about." -Colin Nissan, "The Ultimate Guide to Writing Better Than You Normally Do." 

Check out the full article here. 

And here's something I love: 

"How many women wrote beautiful novels and stories and poems and essays and plays and scripts and songs in spite of all the crap they endured. How many of them didn’t collapse in a heap of “I could have been better than this” and instead went right ahead and became better than anyone would have predicted or allowed them to be. The unifying theme is resilience and faith. The unifying theme is being a warrior and a motherfucker. It is not fragility. It’s strength. It’s nerve. And “if your Nerve, deny you –,” as Emily Dickinson wrote, “go above your Nerve.” Writing is hard for every last one of us—straight white men included. Coal mining is harder. Do you think miners stand around all day talking about how hard it is to mine for coal? They do not. They simply dig." -Sugar (Cheryl Strayed), Dear Sugar #48, "Write Like a Motherfucker." 

You should definitely read the full piece here.

I think I should return to my To-Do list,  the one that has not decreased as the day has gone by but instead mocked me from afar. I made it, though, so really I did it to myself. All of this stuff I'm getting rid of and being afraid of and looking forward to: I did that to myself. But there's something kind of fantastic about that, isn't there? 

Fighting Rain Since Philly

I had to drive to Chicago again this past Friday. In the days leading up to the drive I went back and forth between pure annoyance and a relieved excitement. Unlike the previous trip, my lead on an apartment was far more promising and there was a real chance of returning east with a place to live. I still had to make the six-plus hour trek, though, and I had to do it on a Friday evening. For those of you who don't know, night driving is not one of my strong suits as I have absolutely terrible vision, not to mention I was driving directly into rain. Ever since I drove two solid hours on 80 in a monsoon, I have had serious reservations about driving in weather of any kind. Essentially, I would have only been happy if it was the morning and it was sunny but not too bright. I'm none too crazy about brightness either. 

I left work at three o'clock that afternoon after changing out of my dress and heels. Earlier that day, a mother and daughter in the office told me they loved my shoes and I did a small dance before declaring they had only cost me six bucks. They make my toes scream, though, so what the mother and daughter didn't know is that I ran upstairs after I spoke with them and flung the shoes under my desk. I guess I could have kept them there but I ultimately stuffed them under my passenger seat, which is where they are now. So I started driving north west, letting the radio signals run out before I switched to CDs, noticing how low and large the clouds looked, and running through what could be expected for the weekend. I knew I had to like the apartment or else we might not have any place to live. I knew that I had forgotten to pack something but I wasn't sure what it was. I knew that I would get to see my boyfriend for maybe four hours, which wasn't exactly thrilling but it would have to do. And I knew that I should have brought more than a bag of pretzels for road trip snacking.

Then my car started blinking at me and that really pissed me off.

Now at this point you're probably wondering if there is anything I like, considering I've already bitched about rain, darkness, brightness, pretzel quantity, and now cars doing things they shouldn't. The fact of the matter is that nobody likes their cars doing things they shouldn't, so I feel that this one is fairly justified. Anyway, the low tire pressure light went off, which is problematic because my car has a history of leaky seams between the rims and the tires. One time I was driving home from college in my first year and the low tire pressure light came on. I didn't think that was a serious issue so I continued driving until the woman next to me at a red light did the roll down your window hand motion and said "You realize you're diving on a flat tire, right?" Woops. So I take the light seriously. I'd been driving for maybe an hour and a half so I hadn't exactly made a ton of progress at that point. I pulled off at the first rest stop I saw, got some gas, then began my search for the air pumps.

But they simply were not there.

I know that seems unbelievable, perhaps even impossible, but as far as I could tell I was not seeing anything that resembled an air pump. I tried to nonchalantly check out the tractor trailer area, but you can't exactly be nonchalant about that. So I kind of ho hummed around the parking lot for awhile, wondering if I should ask the man inside the gas station if he was hiding all the air. A pick up truck with an attached U-Haul trailer was parked a few spaces away from me. His truck and trailer ran perpendicular to the parking spaces and when he moved (fiiiiiinally) the air pumps appeared. Hoorah! I said to nobody. I snatched up the spot right next to the blue "Air" sign and I triumphantly leaped out of my car. I grabbed the rubber hose and looked at the nozzle on its end.

"Who the hell are you?" I asked the strange metal object. It looked like a dentist's tool and definitely not like anything I had ever used to put air in my tires. I tried a variation of methods to make it work. I think I hit it against my hand, pulled on it, twisted it, said please. I also noticed that the other end of the hose didn't appear to be hooked up to anything, as strange as that sounds, and I didn't see any air tanks nor did I see anywhere to put my quarters. Here's another thing you should know about me: I hate this bullshit that suggests a woman doesn't know anything about her own car. I make a relatively concerted effort to at least have an understanding of what is happening and why, so believe me when I say I was growing increasingly frustrated by this stupid little nozzle that I had never seen before. As I have a car guy, I called him.

"Please don't make fun of me for the questions I'm about to ask you."

"Go on," he said.

I described the thing as best I could, I told him that no, no, don't worry, when I press my thumb into the tire it does not feel low, but yes, it looks low. I continued on about the metal gadget and my theory that it's not real and this thing is broken. Then he asked:

"Does it look like the one dad has?"

Ugggghhhh I don't know if it's the one dad has. My car guy is my brother, by the way, so I think I'm allowed to be a brat to a greater degree. Brother said that I should be fine but to stop the next time I could and locate a real air pump. "Real" is my word, by the way, because I still wasn't convinced that this thing was of any good to anyone. I got back on the road, drove about seven miles, pulled off at another rest stop and was met with the same stupid contraption as before. This one looked slightly more legit, though, as I could hear the air, feel it moving in the rubber hose, and saw that its end was embedded firmly in the ground. I decided to play with the dentistry nozzle, performing the same basic methods as before, twisting and turning it, until the smallest hiss of air came from the downward facing valve. Deciding not to question my good fortune, I filled up my front tire to the best of my ability, stopping when I thought it looked fuller. Yes, I thought to myself, you will have to do for now. 

A man approached from the direction of the tractor trailer parking lot.

"Darlin', do you need help?"

Because I hate when anyone assumes I need help, let alone offer it, I really had to keep my temper in check. [Note: when asked in a job interview what my weakness is, I am for SURE going to tell them I hate help, don't want or need help, and don't like the assumption that I can't do it. And then I end up with way too much on my plate, wondering why in the hell no one offered to help me with anything. It's something I'm working on.]

"I don't know," I said to the man. "I filled it up. Do you think it looks ok?"

He took a step back and sized up the tire.

"Let me go get my tire gauge."

The wind was picking up and the humidity was effectively gone. I watched the puffy clouds spread out and start to rain on the distant highway to the west of me. I still had close to five more hours of driving left. I wasn't even in Indiana yet.

The man returned from the cab of his semi with the tire gauge. We had a brief discussion about what the weight of my tires should be and then I gave a really fast, really garbled explanation of why I had trouble with this particular air pump and I'm used to a needle and I've never used one that's meant for duelies before and a lot of other stuff that was meant to convince him but ultimately myself that I usually know what I'm doing but not right now, no, not really. I don't know what I expected; maybe a man who would validate my insecurities with a cutesy-but-condescending comment or a disapproving mini lecture about knowing the ins and outs of one's automobile. Instead he smiled and said:

"Darlin', that tire looks pretty darn good. Let's do the rest."

I checked the pressure in the first tire then made my way around to the other three with air hose in hand. The man held onto the gauge, handing it to me when my open palm appeared above my shoulder. I asked him if he thought I was driving into weather. He turned his face towards the sky and assessed the clouds, the same ones I assume he has driven under for years.

"I've been fighting rain since Philly," he said. "But at least it ain't snow."

I screwed the cap on the last tire and handed him his tire gauge. We wished each other safe travels and he began his walk back to his truck. He stopped a short distance away, turned around and said.
"Make sure you get one of these for your car. They're not expensive. Best to have one." He was waving the yellow gauge at me. I got back in my car and started it, the low tire pressure light flickering once or twice and then fading to black.

I'm happy that this man asked if I needed help. I'm happy because he was neither salacious nor patronizing, two attributes that are sadly common for women in distress. I like to think I have a fairly good sense of people's intentions when they approach me, but I've been wrong before. A couple of years ago I was getting gas at a neighborhood gas station and a man in a nice car, nice suit, and with a nice haircut was at the pump behind me. He was surely someone's father. I had no reason to distrust him based on looks alone, but as he was getting back in his car he paid me a lewd, over-sexed, threatening comment that I'm sure I was supposed to take as a compliment. Because he's a rich guy, right? All ladies want a seemingly powerful man to leer at her and then make her feel disgusting. Anyway, the man who helped me with my tire was a truck driver and he was dressed "like a truck driver." I suppose that other people might think of that as a red flag in itself, but because he reminded me so much of my dad, I basically knew what kind of character I was dealing with. Sure enough, he kept his distance, never attempted to cross any kind of boundaries, and walked away as soon as I was finished with his tire gauge. Best of all, he at no point made me feel stupid. He could have. He lives and works in a truck, his life is comprised of checking it and making sure it runs correctly. But he seemed kind of proud that I knew what I was doing. I don't even know the guy's name.

The drive to Chicago was fine. It rained from Toledo to Gary.

And the weekend was wonderful. I found an apartment AND boyfriend surprised me by literally appearing at the restaurant where I was eating dinner Saturday night. Brother has informed me that he has furniture he needs to get rid of so I can take any of it with me, and I've had a day of texts from buddies I haven't heard from in awhile. I received my first house warming gift last night from a former teacher, a framed Emma Goldman poster with a killer quote. Now all I need is a job! Minor detail, I think.

Taking a Crack at Fiction

I've been slacking, I know. But I'm a working woman with a cubicle now and I can't just abuse that kind of power, you know? I also have a small pile of paper clips that I get to call mine. I'm a somebody.  By the time I leave, I will have worked there for 3.5 weeks. Thank you, Former College, for liking me the way you do.

Right, so this entry.

As you may or may not have noticed, this blog, the very one that is meant to bolster my career as a writer, has merely become musings from my life. They are perhaps creative non-fiction but really it's observation based entries with the occasional anecdote thrown in. I said to my self, "Self, you should give the readers a fine example of your skills as a fiction writer!" So that is exactly what I'm going to do. The following story is definitely not based on my apartment hunting experience in Chicago. This is fictional and I made it up. All of it.


9:40

Catie had made it.

After driving for nearly six hours, navigating her way through down town traffic, and listening to the same CD through the state of Indiana, she had made it.

Hidalgo: The Breezy City.

The past year had been filled with various opportunities to visit the city, all of which she took. Writing conferences, academic presentations, and schmoozing the boyfriend's family had brought her back time and time again. Even better, they were structured visits organized by someone else. She was always tagging along and tricking passerby into believe she was one of them. Catie was not nervous for this new adventure, though. She saw it as a chance to tip toe into adulthood and do it without anyone noticing. She was tired of the constant barrage of Wellwudyagonnadothere questions that seemed to mock her decision to pick up and move. Catie had no idea what she was going to do there and that delighted her.

One part of the plan was certain: an apartment must be found. Hannah, Catie's soon-to-be roommate, had gotten a job in a northern suburb of Hidalgo. As soon as Catie found out that her friend from college would be moving, she jumped on board and volunteered to be the second half of the rent check. It didn't bother Catie that she herself was unemployed; she knew she'd find something eventually. But neither Catie or Hannah had ever had to deal with landlords or leases or utilities that are-or-aren't included. In retrospect, because I the narrator have that, Catie was not correctly going about the apartment hunt. She had contacted a professional service, one that had been recommended, and made an appointment. She assumed that a professional service would offer far more help than conducting the search on her own. Besides, they're professionals! This is what they do!

Catie slept over at a friend's apartment, anxious for the early morning meeting but ultimately pleased with herself. She had done it. She had taken the initiative and the process was moving forward. She was going to find the perfect apartment and Hannah was going to love it. She awoke the next morning earlier than the alarm was set and went over all the questions she would ask at the meeting. She couldn't wait to impress the agents with all of the research she had done. She walked into the kitchen to find her friend and her room mate eating breakfast.

"So, Catie, how are you getting to your appointment?" asked the friend.

"I figured I'd catch a cab."

The other two girls exchanged glances.

"Wait," said Catie, "that's a thing, right?"

The friend thought for a moment before speaking.

"Yes. But not around here."

The two girls set to work, creating verbal maps of their neighborhood, pointing and naming landmarks,  directing Catie to an area that might have cabs. They were saying things like They should be there and I think I've seen them there before. But Catie wasn't worried--it was her day to shine.

Catie's appointment was at 9:00. She arrived at 9:06. The reason for her tardiness is another story, but know that it involves those cabs that should be there. 

The company was called PlaceHolders and the office was in a part of Hidalgo called GuysVille. Guysville is called this because of the number of good looking guys in the area. Catie burst through the front doors and, panting slightly, announced: "I am Catie! And I have an appointment!" The three receptionists burst into applause and the one with the large fake breasts offered her a warm chocolate chip cookie. She also gave her a form to fill out and motioned to a large leather couch. "Make yourself at home!" the chirped, her ample bosoms muffling the sound of her voice. Make yourself at home, laughed Catie to herself. Don't mind if  I do. She sank deeper into the couch's leather, allowing her sweaty shirt to crystalize in the ice cold air conditioning. The flat screen was showing a live qualifying round of something happening in water: women's water polo or synchronized swimming perhaps. A tall man in a sleek suit appeared from a back room.

"Catherine?" he asked, all of his teeth showing.

"That's me!" said Catie, jumping in the air.

"Let's go get you an apartment!" And his sleek grey suit was already headed upstairs to the offices.

The man was named Todd and he was delighted to help such a pretty, well prepared young lady. He made small talk while he showed her to a small cubicle, outfitted only with a desk, two chairs, and a computer. Todd said, "I'll tell Amanda you're here." He disappeared around the cubicle wall. Catie checked her watch. It was 9:26.

At 9:31 Amanda shuffled into the seat opposite Catie, a large designer bag draped over her petite frame. Amanda put the bag on the floor, revealing her perfectly round pregnant stomach. The freckles on her skin had seen too much sun and they all melted together into a bronzey layer of pseudo-tan. She had choppy light hair pulled back away from her pale eyes. Her printed sundress hung tight on her figure but it was still flattering; skinny arms, skinny legs, skinny face, huge boobs, and that little round tummy. And there on her left ring finger she wore a wedding ring: two pewter squares connected by a single stone. Amanda looked like art.

Catie told her what I wanted. She gave her a price and a neighborhood and she watched her enter the information into the search system. Catie imagined all of the wonderful places Amanda would take her in her car, the baby kicking inside as Catie spun around with open arms in the living room of the new place. She would call Hannah and they would celebrate across time zones. I'll take it! Catie would exclaim. I'll take it!

Amanda turned the monitor to face her.

"So these are your choices."

Catie squinted at the screen. There were three properties listed. In the entire city of Hidalgo there were three apartments.

"And these two," said Amanda tapping the screen with her pen, "have a start date of August 1. Which is Wednesday. So do you think you could be in by then?"

Catie's eyes shot away from the screen and into Amanda's.

"No, I don't think that will work."

"Hmm." Amanda took a blank map from her bag and began drawing on it with her pen. "So that leaves you with one place. And it's right here." She circled a seemingly empty spot on the map. "It's not really near....anything. You said you wanted to be near public transit?"

"Mmm hmm."

"I see. Well the good news is you're about six blocks from a bus which will then take you to the violet line or the apricot line. That's about a 45 minute bus ride to get there. Then once you're on the train, you'll have to transfer after you've ridden about a block or two, and at that point you can hop on any of the other train lines. But only between the hours of four and five in the evening."

"What do we do if it's not between four or five?"

"Hmm. I don't know." Amanda's eyes narrowed in on Catie. "You don't look happy."

"Well, I don't understand how we're only eligible for one apartment."

"Hmmmm." Amanda nodded, her hair unmoving. "Well I think the problem here is your budget. It's just..." Amanda trailed off. "It's too low, is what it is. And I just don't think you're going to....hmm...find anything....hmm....here...specifically." Her square wedding ring hovered over the map to which she was referencing.

"What do I do now?" Catie no longer felt pretty or well prepared. She was panicked.

"We usually tell our clients to go home until we find something. It's just a shame that you drove all the way here." Amanda's shiny face tilted a little in feigned compassion.

Catie looked at her watch. It was 9:40.

And that's the end of Part I! There is a Part II that is also fiction. Wait for that?

In unrelated news, here are my top two biggest crushes of the 2012 Olympic Games. I thought about this a lot and I'm pretty proud of my picks. The double golds go to:

• Nathan Adrian; Swimming; Best smile this side of the equator.
• Allyson Felix; Track; Never breaks a sweat and is basically the cutest. 

I'm heading back to Hadalgo Chicago this weekend. I assume everything will go smoothly. Right?